Altering the Odds
by scorchedtrees
Summary: A collection of drabbles and ficlets featuring Yassen Gregorovich. Contains spoilers for Russian Roulette.
1. no one

_A/N: So I recently discovered Russian Roulette (I've read and loved the AR series since I was twelve) and devoured it and immediately wanted to write about Yassen, so I did. This is just a dumb short little drabble, but there are many others I have in mind and may write sometime if anyone's interested._

* * *

There is a man waiting for him when he exits the terminal.

His eyes immediately pick him out from the dozens of other people waiting for friends or relatives or clients, holding up signs or banners or waving excitedly. There is nothing special about the man, standing casually to the side near the ticket counters with his hands in his pockets, clad in dark trousers and a simple button-down shirt, but Yassen notes the way he does not search for anyone coming out of the gates, only checking his watch occasionally and then staring off into space, and the man's body language tells him all he needs to know.

Neither of them say a word. The man turns and walks out of the airport, and Yassen follows. The car they get into is dark and nondescript, the driver's face shadowed, and the boat that leads them to the Widow's Palace just one among many lining the canals of Venice.

Julia Rothman is waiting for him where they first met, in the room with an elaborately carved table and a row of windows overlooking the Grand Canal. She is alone—Yassen is careful to look for John Rider this time, but the British man (_agent, spy_) is nowhere in sight.

"Welcome back, Yassen," she says, and her tone is friendly, though her eyes are unreadable. "John tells me he didn't expect to see you again."

He says nothing. She gestures to the chair opposite her. "Please, sit."

He sits. She does not speak for a moment and neither does he; Scorpia must have heard the news about the Sharkovskys already, or he would long be dead.

"We believe," Mrs. Rothman finally says, "you can be very successful in this line of work, Yassen. But there is one thing you must remember: you are no one. An assassin kills for money. He does not kill out of pettiness, or anger, or revenge. Not out of any sort of emotion. Whoever wronged you in the past, forget them. You are nobody now. Your side trip did not delay any of our operations, and it proves your willingness to work for us, but in the future…"

She does not say anymore; she does not need to say anymore. Yassen nods, and her face breaks out into a red-lipped smile.

"Check in with Dr. Steiner when you can," she says. "You will want to meet with Desmond Nye and Oliver D'Arc as well."

He nods once more. His face gives nothing away, but she tilts her head and studies him with sharp eyes. "Is there anything you want to say, Yassen?"

The image of the battery flashes in his mind again, as it has been doing constantly since he left the dacha. _You are no one,_ he hears as a whisper in his ear, and he knows then that he truly is just that: an assassin who owes allegiance to no one but himself. He shakes his head and the image disappears.

"Very well. Be prepared; you will be sent out again shortly."

There are no details. There are never any details and there never will be; he is already accustomed to it and he must be for however long he lives. Julia Rothman stands, and he follows her out the door.


	2. old memories

_A/N: I know Yassen said he never saw Dima again but I just really wanted to write this._

* * *

He has traveled to all six hospitable continents by now; he has taken planes and buses and taxis and trains, motorbikes and helicopters and boats and ferries. He has spoken many languages and handled many weapons, tried dozens of cuisines and visited hundreds of tourist spots. He has been many different people, met many others, and killed his fair share of them. He is invisible, and he is an assassin.

Yet some part of him always remembers Yasha Gregorovich, the lost boy from Estrov, when he steps back onto the streets of Moscow.

The square outside Kazanskiy station is cleaner than he remembers; it is crammed with people rushing for their trains and tourists wandering around, clutching cameras and backpacks. Russia is opening to the rest of the world, and he hears as much English as he does Russian as he slips through the crowds, unnoticed.

He has a week here this time; the target is not a very public figure, but Yassen is sure he will find the man's weakness. There should be a car waiting for him; he scans the many vehicles lining the sidewalks, trying to pick out the exact one that stands out by not doing so—there he will find his ride.

It is as he spots the nondescript gray car near the end of one lane that he hears it.

"Yasha."

It must be a coincidence—but there is no such thing as coincidence. Yassen knows this only too well. He does not turn, only reaching into his pocket to check his mobile phone, and when he does, his eyes catch the homeless man on the side of the street behind him.

He stands next to the garbage bin, hair longer and straighter and streaked with premature gray, nose just as broken, wearing the same leather jacket that is now too small for him. Yassen gives him and the surroundings a cursory glance, then looks away, but one look is all he needs: he never forgets a face, not anymore, and the homeless man is exactly the person Yassen hoped he wasn't.

Dima no longer stands like he owns the sidewalk, but the fact that he is there at all, in plain sight in the middle of the street, is already impressive. The local police have been harsher on people like him since Yassen left Moscow.

"Yasha. I know you can hear me."

Yassen does not look back, preparing instead to dart through the traffic towards his ride, but then he feels the presence behind him, and he spins around before Dima can touch him.

"You've done well for yourself," the older man says, looking him up and down. "We all thought Sharkovsky killed you—Fagin said you had to be dead. The police got Fagin. They connected him to a string of crimes and—it's not a very pleasant story, not suitable for old friends catching up. Everything's the same with me anyway. We were put in jail a couple years ago; Roman and Grigory haven't gotten out yet, but I'm here, in time to see you stroll out of Kazanskiy station like a foreigner on business—so why don't you tell me about where you've been the last ten years, Yasha?"

Dima says it all in one breath; in that time, Yassen stares at him neutrally, and makes a decision the moment the words fade away into the air. "You must have the wrong person," he says in English. "I do not speak Russian."

"Even your voice is the same," Dima says impatiently. "Are you trying to fool me, Yasha? I would never forget your face—it's haunted me enough since you broke through that fortochnik."

Yassen glances through the traffic at the waiting car, and sees an opening. "You have the wrong person," he repeats, then turns and weaves his way through the vehicles.

"Hey!"

Yassen does not look back; he hears his old name called again, and then an angry shout in Russian from a different voice at the homeless man causing a racket, but he does not slow down. He locks eyes with the driver, who nods imperceptibly, and slides into the backseat of the car.

"Yasha!" he hears through the tinted windows.

The driver looks at him through the rearview mirror. "Problem?"

"No." Yassen leans back in his seat and fixes his eyes on the headrest of the seat in front of him. "Drive."

The man obeys; the car merges into the traffic and disappears into the heart of Moscow, leaving behind just another homeless man and a lost fourteen-year-old boy's memories.

* * *

_A/N: I don't think people read this so I probably won't post any more, but have one more chapter so this can actually be considered a collection or something like that ^^_


End file.
